Facts, Not Feelings
by Write Words That Burn
Summary: "Describe the events as they happened. Don't leave anything out. Don't be boring." He immediately gave off the impression that he was a man who liked the cold hard facts. Facts, not feelings. She raised an eyebrow and was about to point out that witnessing a murder was in no way boring but clearly neither of them wanted to prolong their stay in the rain, so she began.
1. The Facts

**Chapter One – The Facts**

The rain came down heavier than it had yesterday. The city had not seen the sun today, only think banks of cloud that now covered the moon as it came on duty. The temperature had dropped too, a jumper needed under the raincoat now if you were to walk home. If you were to take the tube, however, one may adopt less thick clothing, on the basis that no matter how cold the outside temperature was, a packed tube carriage of commuters boosted the temperature considerably. One may choose to not wear a raincoat altogether, as well as a jumper, and simply wear a top and jacket. Especially if it wasn't raining when you left the flat. That was the clothing Amy Jenkins had chosen to adopt, and now she sat on the stone steps of someone's doorway soaked to the bone, wishing she'd considered this eventuality earlier. She repeated that to herself. 'I should have considered this eventuality earlier'. The eventuality in which she sat in the pouring rain after having witnessed a murder on the street outside her place of work, watching the police tape off the scene as the blood washed away down the ever-filling drains. Certainly an eventuality she should have planned for…

Amy watched the officers mill around the scene in their nice waterproof high vis jackets. There was one man who was not in one however, instead in a long blue coat which looked just as warm and protective to the freezing woman. She'd given her statement and now just wanted to go home. But apparently someone else wanted to speak to her. She sighed, running her fingers under her eyes to collect the stray mascara that had been washed down there by the rain. This caused her to momentarily take her eyes off the scene ahead. As she did, she felt a jacket being placed on her shoulders. It was well made, relatively heavy, expensive. Amy immediately felt warmer and was glad for it. She looked up at the man whom the jacket belonged to. He was tall, and had dark (now wet) curls. He was the man wearing the long blue coat, which he was now doing up again after having just removed it to give her his jacket.  
"Thank you," she murmured up at him, gladly tugging it closer around her to shield from the weather. He only nodded briefly and sat next to her on the step, Amy having sat to one side to try and gain a little more protection from the wall next to her. His face was shadowed, obscured. She could barely make out his features as she glanced over at him. But she didn't feel intimidated.  
"You're the one and only witness?" he asked. His voice was deep, but not gruff, gravelly but not harsh. In fact, it was rather mellower than you would first think.  
She nodded in response. "You're the man who wanted to talk to me after the police, therefore keeping me in the cold and wet for longer?"  
He nodded back.  
She could only shrug a little. He was here now, and she'd waited, so she may as well answer the questions.  
"What are you, some sort of freelancer?"  
He didn't respond.  
"Make it quick," she said with a sigh.

"Describe the events as they happened. Don't leave anything out. Don't be boring." He immediately gave off the impression that he was a man who liked the cold hard facts. Not fanciful details. _Facts, not feelings._  
She raised an eyebrow and was about to point out that witnessing a murder was in no way boring but clearly neither of them wanted to prolong their stay in the rain, so she began.

"I was working late, like I usually do on a Thursday night to make sure I leave on time on Fridays. Usually I turn out all the lights in the research department as I leave, and Steve, that's um…" She swallowed.  
"The victim," the man said, but not by way of help, just because it was a fact. _Facts, not feelings._  
"Yeah, well, usually he hears me pack up and shut everything down and comes to the department and locks the doors after me. We then walk to the main doors together, chatting, and he locks up after us before his final patrol. Then he clocks off. But tonight he never met me at the research department. I just thought maybe he was in a different area to usual and just hadn't heard me. So I called out, but there was nothing. I walked into the Main Hall, called for him again, but nothing. Silence. Then I heard what sounded to me like a car backfiring. I ran outside. I don't know why, I guess the sound just made me think I should. Steve was standing there, back to the doors, and there was a man pointing a gun at him. The first shot, which was obviously what I'd heard, had buried itself in the stone pillar next to him. Steve was stood with his hands up. The gunman saw me and pointed the gun at me. I froze. But he wasn't interested in me. He pointed it back at Steve and just shot him in the head. Without a second thought. And then ran."

She was silent for a moment, and a shiver coursed through her. They both knew it wasn't just the cold that caused it.

"Can you describe the shooter?" The stranger's voice was softer now, less blunt. But by no means was his aim to make her feel at ease. _Facts, not feelings._  
"His face was covered. But white male, light hair, dark clothing. I could just about see tattoos peeking out from under his clothes. I think they were both parts of sleeves. There was a tiger on his left hand, on the top. That's all I could see. He didn't exactly hang around for a sketch."  
The man nodded. "A fairly decent description. And you've told the police what weapon he was using. I'm going to assume your knowledge of guns comes from your work and doesn't make you a suspect."  
Amy just nodded.  
"That'll be all for now then. The police have your number should they or I need to contact you for further information. Allow me to hail you a cab."

Amy attempted to process the last few seconds of speech as fast as she could. It was like the cold had slowed down her social function.  
"I don't have any money…" she suddenly blurted out. "I mean, I use the tube. And I only had money on me for lunch. I have an oyster card. So I'll take the tube home, thank you."  
She stood too, shivering again as heat was released where her body was no longer hunched up. Her brain felt like the scrambled eggs she'd made for breakfast.  
The detective looked around them, down the streets. "The nearest tube station is a ten minute walk away. I can't allow you to do that on your own. Besides, a cab is far warmer and no doubt quicker at this time of night. Let me get you one, on me. Least I can do for keeping you longer."

The kindness seemed a little forced, like he knew this is what he _should_ do and so was. Like he understood the etiquette of the situation but was rather loathed to fulfil it. Still, despite picking up on this, Amy was too tired and cold and wet to argue anymore.

"Fine, but I will be paying you back."  
"The police gave me your address. Your flat is en route to mine. I'm at Baker Street. So, in fact, we can share the cab."  
Amy thought a moment. They were both in the same direction, true. And with the prospect of a warm vehicle, she found herself following him to the roadside. Tonight had just been… madness.

Amy was glad for the warmth of the cab. She could also see the stranger's face clearer for the first time as they rushed past the orange glow of the streetlights. He was pale, dark curls, light eyes, pronounced and sharp bone structure. Not as tall as she'd first thought. _Facts, not feelings._

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said by way of introduction.  
"Amy Jenkins," she replied. "But then, you already know that…" She managed a small smile. It was all she could muster after what had just happened. She continued to shiver under his jacket, despite the warmth of the cab's heating, which was pretty efficient. She couldn't wait for a long, hot bath and her thick duvet. Which seemed pretty selfish now considering a colleague had just been killed. The cab ride was silent; neither had tried to make conversation. Amy was glad that Sherlock had left her to her thoughts, though she didn't imagine he was much into small talk and pleasantries. _Facts, not feelings._

The cab soon pulled up outside her flat. The fare so far had come to seven pounds. She figured it would be about ten once at Baker Street.  
"Wait there. I'll go and grab some money to pay half."  
"Really, there's no need. I made you get the cab," she could hear him saying as she climbed out.  
"I insist," Amy sighed back through the open door.  
Sherlock held his hands up in defeat. Thinking she'd return the jacket when she gave him the money, therefore sheltering herself just a little longer from the rain, Amy turned and made her way up to her front door. Her cold hands fumbled with her set of keys, more key rings than actual keys, and finally got the door unlocked. Reaching out her freezing hand she slapped the light switch and illuminated the hallway of her flat. A handy fiver sat on the cabinet just inside the door and she grabbed it, turning and heading back out, pulling the door up against the incessant rain. But as she looked down to the road, the cab was gone. She stood for a moment, eyes scanning the road as if she'd missed it, and it may magically appear again. Subconsciously, she pulled the jacket closer around her against the cold. _His_ jacket. She had no contact number, only a name. And now his jacket. But why would he leave without it? Because he knew the police would want to see Amy again and had every confidence she'd return it then? Or was it some kind of attempt to ensure _he_ would see her again? No. _Facts, not feelings._  
Amy frowned and turned away again, entering the relative warmth of her flat once more. This was not a night to be alone in silence. So she turned on the TV and went about running a hot bath, just attempting to be normal. But suddenly her life wasn't normal, it wasn't run of the mill anymore. She wasn't sure what would happen now, and how she'd be affected by this. One thing she was sure of; life wouldn't be the same for her now.


	2. The Feelings

**Chapter Two – The Feelings**

Amy wasn't one to have nightmares. Being alone hardly disturbed her anymore. She wouldn't count herself as an extrovert or an introvert. She had many great friends who she saw frequently and loved going out with. Similarly though, she loved a quiet glass of wine, a pizza and a movie night in with them. Furthermore, doing that alone was perfectly acceptable. And after a few months travelling alone around Europe, meeting up with friends occasionally, not much fazed her anymore. She'd seen riots, protests, crime and terrorist scares and while she was in no way ambivalent to these events, nothing had sent her home crying.  
Which is why she was rather scared when every time she closed her eyes, the image of what she'd seen that night filled her mind. The gun pointed right at her, the body on the pavement, the blood washing down the drains. And him. The man in the long coat. And each time she opened her eyes to alleviate her mind of those images, they fell on the dimly lit jacket that hung on a hanger on the front of her wardrobe to dry, reminding her it had all been real.  
Never one to have functioned well on lack of sleep, Amy just tugged her duvet up closer to her chin and forced her eyes to stay closed until she drifted off into a restless sleep.

She woke the next morning to her phone being bombarded with calls and texts. Was she okay? Why hadn't she called? Call back when she got the messages. She was momentarily confused. What had she missed during the night? Then her eyes fell on the jacket hanging on her wardrobe. She groaned and sat up, pushing her hair back off her face, unlocking the phone. Missed calls from Mum. Mum mobile. Home. Dad mobile. Mum again. Then five friends. Nan mobile. Nan home. Auntie. Well, she was popular today. Combating the issue with a group text, she just told everyone 'I'm fine. I'll speak to you all individually throughout the morning'. She then decided she better start with her parents.

As the phone dialled, Amy pulled on her fluffy dressing gown and wandered through the flat. The rain had been relentless all night and remained a drizzle this morning. It was grey, dull, and dark, and it was already 9:30am. She never slept in that late anymore. Not since she left university. She felt like her entire routine had been thrown off. Which was just pathetic. Like that hardly mattered to anything now. She hadn't felt lost in quite a few years, but this morning as she walked into her kitchen she felt… the word had to be lost. She flicked on the TV and muted it as the call connected to her mum. She was immediately yelled at. Not because her mum was angry but because she was worried. It was the typical mothering yelling. She began to calm her, placing her phone on speaker on the worktop as she watched the news on the BBC. Last night was the breaking story across all the channels, it seemed. Police cars, flashing blue lights, the front of the museum. She hoped to god the press hadn't somehow got her name. She knew the police would of course keep quiet but what about her co-workers? The news mentioned there was one key witness but they weren't named. Amy breathed a sigh of relief and continued calming her mum. She saw the officer who took her statement last night give an interview; Gregory Lestrade. He had been nice to her, and she trusted him far more than the rest of the officers that milled around the scene.

Her mum began to give her a detailed account of what the news was saying about the murder, and Amy had to remind her that she was actually there for the whole thing and was the only one who actually knew what happened in full. That made her feel like she had a target on her head for the media now. She just hoped she could keep out of the lime light. Amy made her excuses to her mum and said she'd call her later.  
The next half hour was taken up with calling everyone else and repeating the same thing; yes the news was accurate and yes she was the witness. And yes, of course she was okay. And no, she would not be going anywhere near the media if she could help it. After she finished with her friends, she sat down at the breakfast bar, facing the TV. Once again, this was insane. That was all she could think every time she read the headline at the bottom of the screen: 'Murder outside popular museum in city centre'. With a sigh, she let her head slowly rest on the cold breakfast bar. What the hell was she going to do today? She had to keep busy, otherwise she'd start thinking about it all again, and she'd probably send herself crazy. She was the type of person who needed to keep busy anyway, but with this hanging over her, even more so. After ten minutes of wandering around the flat, she found herself jogging to her ringing phone with the feeling of relief that she'd be occupied for another few minutes, whoever it may be. When it was DI Lestrade on the other end of the phone, asking her to come to Scotland Yard to give further information, she felt even stronger relief. Something to focus herself on for a while, even if at the end of the distraction she had to think about it all in detail again.

This was an excuse to slip back into her morning routine nicely, even if it was a bit later than usual. She made coffee, had a shower, dried her hair, did her make-up, got dressed (in weather appropriate clothing this time; standard jeans but with a jumper she could have a rain coat on top of) threw her phone into her bag and grabbed her oyster card. She made it out of the door in 45 minutes, which she was sure was record (ask anyone who had ever waited for her to get ready) and had got her key in the lock when she remembered. His jacket. Sherlock Holmes' jacket. She ran back inside to grab it, and a small smile grazed her lips as she picked it off the wardrobe. Somehow the encounter with him was enough to make her smile without much reason. She doubted that her memory to Sherlock Holmes would cause the same emotional reaction.

The cab ride was painfully slow, the remnants of rush hour traffic still going. Then again the centre of London was always in rush hour. Amy just stared off out of the window, trying to think about other things. Anything but last night. It was bothering her more than she cared to admit to herself. After initially being glad for the distraction of heading to Scotland Yard, Amy was now apprehensive. Aside from the uncomfortable night she'd had, she was yet to have a full emotional response she knew she'd have to have very soon. She hadn't cried yet. And she could feel the tension rising. There were so many unanswered questions, and so many terrifying images. She knew the tears had to come. What worried her is that it would happen when the Detective Inspector was asking her questions. She hated it when people saw her cry.  
The cab reached its destination and she thanked the cabbie as he paid, sliding out with the jacket that lay over her arm. It was barely raining now but she zipped up her raincoat against the sharp wind anyway. She didn't want to be rained on again for as long as possible. She certainly felt warmer than last night with her thick jumper underneath.

She walked up to the main desk, and a very bored-looking receptionist just about managed to raise her head to look up at Amy.  
"Hi, Amy Jenkins here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." She liked how official that sounded but it seemed lost on the woman the other side of the desk.  
The woman typed a few things into the computer that Amy was sure did nothing but make it seem like she was doing something. Amy was then handed a visitors badge on a lanyard. Like every ID she'd ever had at school, sixth form, uni and work, she didn't bother to hang it round her neck, instead just holding it.  
"Third floor," the bored woman informed her, in a tone that matched her face. Amy thanked her, which fell on deaf ears, and headed for the lift. She stabbed the number of the floor with her finger as she entered, and was glad to see she'd be alone in the lift for the short ascent. Leaning back against the rail behind her, she adjusted her bag strap on her shoulder and the jacket the lay across her arms, subconsciously holding it closer to her chest. The lift door opened with a judder and Amy took a breath before stepping out hesitantly.

No one seemed to notice her first off, the office busy with the noise of chattering and typing which melded into one. There were rows and rows of desks with computers, low partitions between then. The space was glass fronted, with a small office in the far right corner. It was essentially a glass box with blinds. Through the open blinds she could see the man she had come to speak with sat at the desk. She began to head that way, opting to scout around the edge of the large office so she didn't disturb anyone working. Not one person looked up at her. She gently knocked on the glass door, politely even. A thoughtless "yeah…?" drifted through the glass door. Amy slowly pushed open the door to see DI Lestrade hunched over his desk, squinting to read something on his computer screen.  
"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Amy said quietly, unsure how else to make her presence known. Somehow she felt like she really shouldn't be there, despite the fact she had been invited. But as soon as the DI looked up with the warm smiled he had used last night, she felt at ease.

"Miss Jenkins. Yes, sorry. Come in."  
Amy closed the door behind her as she entered and took the seat opposite him as he gestured to it. She placed her rain coat on the back of the seat and pulled the sleeves of her jumper down over her hands like she did every time she sat, Sherlock Holmes' jacket in her lap on top of her hands.  
"Thank you for coming in," the DI began. It seemed a standard introduction. "I'll get straight to the point, I'm sure you don't want to be here long."  
Amy could hardly contradict, it would seem a bit bizarre, so she just smiled politely and let him continue.  
"We have no background on the victim, Steve Myles. Nothing. No history, no family, no next of kin. He has no record at all, not even a British passport."  
Amy left a frown fall over her face. Well that was just strange. Surely he'd have a passport at the very least, even if there was no family on record.  
"You mentioned in your statement that you spoke to him each night. We wondered if he'd ever mentioned to you about family, or where he came from. Any information at all really."

Amy thought for a moment. She thought back to how they'd gone through the same routine each night for… years. What did she know about him? She couldn't hide the look of horror on her face when she realised… "I know nothing about him…" she said quietly. "Yes we talked every night but we never said anything. We talked about work. We talked about history. We talked about my time travelling. As far as I assumed he lived alone, because he never mentioned anyone. I don't know where he grew up, he never said. I don't know if he ever travelled, left the country… anything." She seemed almost ashamed. "I'm sorry but… he was a complete stranger to me."

The DI nodded slowly. "As we thought. If someone has made an effort to stay off the record, he's not going to be revealing his life story in a casual chat."  
"What, you mean he purposefully erased himself?" That was the type of thing you heard of in films. Not in real life. That was very interesting.  
"That or he never had records to begin with," the DI mused. Then he made a face as if he'd already said too much and took a breath. "Well, thank you for your help. Obviously we'll keep you updated on the investigation."

Amy looked confused, worried, and that feeling of shame was sticking. "Oh, okay…" She stood slowly as the Detective did.  
"I'm sorry we can't give you any more information, but that is all we've got." And now Amy felt like she'd let down Scotland Yard too.  
"I understand," she said. Then she looked down at the jacket in her arms. "Could you return this to that freelance detective, Sherlock Holmes."  
A smirk slipped across the DI's lips. "Sherlock isn't a freelancer… and he leant you his jacket?"  
Amy nodded slightly. "I was… soaked."  
The smirked remained on the Detective's lips, like Sherlock Holmes lending his jacket was something to smirk about.  
"And he said he doesn't do feelings…" the DI murmured to himself as he took the jacket from her.


	3. His Deductions

**Chapter Three – His Deductions**

Sherlock stood facing the wall, hands steepled in what was now his signature position bellow his chin. He stood facing the wall, observing his spider web of a crime map. There wasn't much to go on, and theories were flying around his mind every few seconds. He'd spend a moment with his eyes closed, considering each theory. When they were discarded, he'd open his eyes in annoyance and move to the next one. John had observed this system for a few moments before standing with a sigh and moving next to him.

"Talk me through it," he said simply. It helped Sherlock to explain it in layman's terms to John. It sometimes sparked an idea.  
Sherlock sighed and exasperated sigh and glanced at John for a moment before dramatically pointing at a picture of a woman on his web.  
"Her… she's important. She's the only piece of the puzzle that makes sense. But she knows nothing. And she isn't lying about that."  
"Then why is she important if she knows nothing?"  
"I don't know! But she is the one and only witness. She's the only one that could possibly know this security guard. Yet she knows nothing about his life. He doesn't have a life according to records. But then records always lie. But she has to know…"  
"But you said she wasn't lying…"  
"Yes John, doesn't mean she doesn't know anything. She may have picked something up and doesn't know it yet. I need to question her again. She has to have spotted something."

John nodded a little and eyed Sherlock sideways. "So you leant her your jacket?" he asked after a moment, nodding to the jacket that Lestrade had returned to them later that morning, after Amy had taken it to him in the yard.  
Sherlock nodded. "Yes? And?"  
"Well, very gentlemanly thing to do for a man with no sentiment." The statement was muttered under his breath as he headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on for himself, not bothering to ask if Sherlock wanted one. A small frown crossed Sherlock's face but he made no further comment on the matter and returned to his wall.

"Think. Think. There has to be a connection. She /is/ connected." He began to pace back and forth like he so often did when his brain wouldn't ignore the irrelevant parts of life. Like eating and sleep. He needed one of those things right now but that was irrelevant. Because she was relevant. But why?!  
John sighed. Sherlock was just irritating when he struggled. "Deduce her. Just deduce her and see if you come across anything. What did you see when you first met?"

Sherlock sighed and took a breath to make some comment to John about how that was a stupid idea but decided against it and just followed the advice.  
"Twenty-eight, researcher, degree I should think. Maybe History, maybe something more specific. Too young to have been in the job that long and have an MA so just a first level degree. Lives alone, from the south but judging by the way she drops the occasional 't' I'd say she's lived in the north at some point in her life. Very work orientated, I assume that's why she lives alone. Decided there was no time for work and a complicated relationship thing. But she has what some would consider a likeable personality. And she's smart. Lestrade said she seemed interested in the Myles mystery, and immediately tried to find explanations, like mentioning that she didn't know if he travelled when Lestrade mentioned the lack of passport. So she can put two and two together well. She'd spoken to the victim a lot, they had had casual conversations. Like I said, likable personality. Maybe he wanted to confide in her, maybe he liked her enough to reveal is secrets. Maybe he'd dropped hints… she said to Lestrade they talked about /her/. So he must have asked about her life. Maybe he was trying to draw comparisons. Maybe he was particularly keen about one subject she spoke of. Maybe he seemed excited about the mention of something he could relate to."

He suddenly stopped, and turned to look at John.  
"I need to see her again…"  
John held back a smirk. Sherlock clearly hadn't registered what that had sounded like to someone on the outside of his brain function.  
Sherlock pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and found her number that he'd entered in the phone after the Yard had given it to him. He text, he didn't call. That was too much of a waste of time. He just needed one simple piece of information:

 **Can we meet? SH**

It wasn't long before he got a response.

 **Yes. Why and where? A**

Sherlock's fingers flew over the keypad quickly.

 **I need to know what you spoke to Steve Myles about. Doesn't matter where. SH**

Sherlock spent the next thirty seconds staring at the wall again. Had Myles accidentally hinted too much? Is that what got him killed?

 **Coffee shop on West Street. Half an hour? A**

Sherlock sighed. Seemed functional enough, it just involved being in public.

 **Fine. See you there. SH**

Sherlock reached for his jacket, the same jacket that had just been returned the slipped it on. "Let me know if you hear anything more from Lestrade," he said as he shrugged on his coat too. "She must have noticed something significant."  
He was gone in moments without another word. John just shook his head a little. He still couldn't work out how much of this eagerness was to solve the case and how much was subconscious eagerness to meet her again. He expected the former, but the latter thought lingered as he watched him from the window hail a cab and climb in.

The cab pulled up outside the coffee shop that had been selected. Sherlock paid and got out, searching immediately through the window for her. Not yet seeing her, he decided to wait outside until she arrived, and began to let himself blindly deduced passers for entertainment. A musician, an enlisted man, a cheater, a banker, a….  
"Hi…" he suddenly heard next to him. He looked over to see Amy now standing beside him, having come from the direction of the tube station. She was more appropriately dressed for the dull, grey day, in a thick coat, jeans and boots, hands shoved in her pockets, and a scarf around her neck. He let a small smile wander over his lips for a second.  
"Hello…" No others words were exchanged as they both entered the coffee shop. It was warm, perhaps too warm, the windows misted with condensation. They unbuttoned their coats simultaneously as they stood in the queue. Amy ordered a cinnamon latte, and went to find a seat while Sherlock ordered a filter coffee. It would be obvious to most that this was both their usual orders, said without hesitation or deliberation.  
Sherlock joined her a few moments later at a table for two, in a rather secluded corner. Clearly she'd taken on his train of thought; they needed to be able to speak easily without interruption of noise or people passing by. Placing his coat on the back of his chair like she had, he sat, watching her wrap her hands around the warm, tall mug she had. She looked up, her eyes full of questions, wanting information. But she wasn't there to ask, she was there to answer. So she chose one, simple question:

"What do you need to know?"

Sherlock slowly leant back in his chair, hands moving away from his own mug a little. "You said you talked about work, about travelling. He must have asked you a lot to fill every night without only information about yourself. What did he ask most often? What did he seem most enthusiastic about? What was the subject he offered his own views and stories on, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant?"

Amy was silent. Her fingers shifted a little around the mug. Her eyes were fixed off into the middle distance. She thought hard. It was a strange feeling to her, to have the words of a dead man echo around her head. All the things he'd said but hadn't said, all the words and feelings that were expressed but just meant nothing. She tried to think of opinions he'd conveyed to her, anything that seemed to hit a nerve. Anything at all.  
"We talked a lot about my time travelling," she said slowly, quietly, like she had thought it but hadn't intended to say it. What places, what people? What had she mentioned that he liked? As much as Sherlock wanted to blurt all this out, to tell her to think, to hurry up, he kept quiet and sipped his coffee.

People, places. Where had she been? Where did he like?

" _Work-wise, Germany had to have been the best place."  
"Oh? Where in Germany did you go?"  
"The usual. Hamburg, Munich. But the conferences in Berlin were the best."  
"Berlin? I love Berlin!"_

"Berlin…" she said quietly, almost a whisper.  
"What about Berlin?" Sherlock immediately replied, studying her face to try and pick up on a hidden reaction even Amy herself may not have realised she was having.  
"I don't know. He said he loved Berlin."  
She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to pick up on that conversation again. Where did it go next?"

" _Berlin? I love Berlin!"  
"Yeah? It is a beautiful city. Ever been there?"  
"Once, a very long time ago. It was very different back then to how it is now."  
"It's a very changed city. A decade ago is ancient history to them. They like to think of this century as starting afresh after all the crap."  
"Good policy to have if you ask me…"_

She frowned a little as she recalled that. "He seemed to like the idea of starting afresh, of letting go of the past and being new."  
Sherlock nodded a little. "Was there any other times he mentioned that? Or hinted that maybe he'd started over?"  
Amy once again went back to staring into the middle distance. Sherlock sighed. He had to remember ordinary people just didn't process and remember like he did.

"He asked me about a husband, kids. I said just my little cousins. He seemed to like kids, he smiled when I told him what little terrors they could be, a knowing smile. Like he'd experienced that and was remembering it. But then when I asked if he had kids, he said he lived alone. Always had." It seemed a feeble thing to bring up, a knowing smile. But Sherlock seemed to think it was pure gold.

"Anything else like that?"  
Amy sighed a little and sipped her coffee for a moment as she thought, picking up her spoon and stirring it slowly.

" _I always loved travelling. Did it between my degree and getting a job here."  
"Mm, very liberating experience."  
"Have you travelled much, Steve?"  
"Me? Nah, not really. Too much hassle. And it's not as fun on your own."  
"Oh, I don't know, I always enjoyed it. Met friends occasionally but being on your own means you can do what you want when you want."  
"I'd much rather be with people. It's nice to have someone to share experiences with. Especially when it's people you love."_

"He always seemed lonely," Amy murmured. "There was a sadness to his voice when he spoke about being with people, like he missed it." She tapped her fingers against the side of the mug gently. It hardly made any noise. She shook her head. "I just can't think of anything else…"

Sherlock sighed a little. It really wasn't much to go on. He had hoped for more. But he supposed Berlin was a start, even if it was a very wide field to search. He watched Amy bring the mug to her lips again. He could tell she was still frantically trying to think of anything else of use. As she placed the mug back down, her eyes lit up.

"Von Bork…"  
Sherlock frowned. "What's Von Bork."  
Amy slowly shook her head. "No what, who. Von Bork was a fictional German spy during the First World War. Well, probably fictional. Rumour is we made him up to convince the Germans that we'd captured one of their prevalent spies, while doing a good bit of propaganda our end to the public to show we were winning. He was meant to have collected a significant amount of intelligence over four years and was to return to Berlin with it in 1917 just as we captured him and gave a significant up yours to the Germans. They were running so many spy ops, they didn't even know if he was one of theirs or not. No one knows if he was real, it was never confirmed. Steve had a keen interest in that story, was always asking me if I could look up the files if I had some spare time and see if I could find the truth…"

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off her as she spoke. "And did you ever look it up?"  
She nodded. "Yes once, but only in our small archives."  
"And?" Sherlock prompted.  
"Well I don't know about deeper in the records, but on the surface he didn't exist. No such man as Von Bork. Fictional, made up by us, or otherwise."

Sherlock leant forward in his seat slowly. "Just like Steve Myles."


	4. Her Research

**Chapter Four - Her Research**

He watched her mind race as his did, watched her try to find the solutions to the problem. Just once, just this time, she was the expert over him. It felt like the situation had been taken out of his hands. This was her field, and it was her time to thrive in it.

They were pushing through crowds, brushing past people, trying to get along the street to hail a cab. Amy was clutching her phone in her hand, scrolling through the index of the archives. Sherlock followed behind, eyes glancing between the road and her, trying his best to keep up with the way she seemed to thread through the rush hour crowds expertly. He supposed she'd done it hundreds of times before. He watched her coat being dragged by people's shoulders, her scarf blowing back in the wind, her hair fall forward into her face. She seemed unfazed by all of these things, staring at her phone, eyes searching for what she was looking for. Finally a cab with its light on emerged on the road and Sherlock stuck his right arm out, using his left to reach out to Amy, grabbing her arm to stop her. She looked round, almost shocked, as if she'd forgotten he was following her and moved out of the crowds to the edge of the pavement as the cab pulled up next to them.

"I've found a few files in the deep archives, there could be more. But it's a start…" Sherlock nodded, opening the cab door for her.  
"Anything you can find is obviously of use." He followed her in, sitting in time to hear her give the address.  
"Imperial War Museum, Lambeth Road please." The cab pulled away from the kerb. She kept scrolling. "I can get us in to the National Archives with notice but technically they shouldn't have anything on this subject we don't have. That's been proved wrong before, of course. They don't like me digging around in there anymore for that reason…"  
She glanced at him, almost with a cheeky smile on her face. "I tend to mess up their top secret, official secrets act protected files."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that. A smile he remembered he had when John had pulled rank at Baskerville. A smile so genuine it rarely occurred. And he knew why now. He smiled like that when he witnessed someone being their true selves… and loving it.

"So are some documents still classified? That can't be after one hundred years."  
Amy shook her head. "Many work on a 'need to know' basis, and with the backing of Scotland Yard, I can say we need to know…"

Sherlock smiled again and nodded. She knew what she was capable of, certainly.  
He watched her continue to scroll and memorise archive patterns and numbers. It wasn't long before the cab pulled up outside the museum. The police tape still restricted access to the public but Amy seemed to have no issue with ducking right under it and heading up to the building. A police officer went to yell, but saw Sherlock follow and with a roll of his eyes let it happen, knowing his life would not be worth living if he prevent the great Sherlock Holmes from doing exactly what he wanted.

Amy produced a large set of keys from her bag and rifled through them, turning the corner to the side door. She was in her own world, on a mission, and aiming to reach her destination quickly.  
She soon found the right key and headed inside, through the cloak room, down the café corridor and entered the main hall of the museum. Sherlock was following closely, and almost failed to stop when she did, standing in the large space next to a tank. She looked up at the Spitfires hanging from the ceiling and a smile grazed her lips. The detective followed her gaze closely, but brought his back down after a moment to her eyes.  
Sherlock Holmes, of course, can read people easily. There is no denying that. But it is usually the facts, hardly ever the feelings that he read. This time however, he watched for the feelings. He watched this woman, who he hardly knew, express every emotion she was feeling as clear as day in her eyes. He watched someone who had seemed rather dull to him before, irrelevant even, become something that fascinated him completely. He watched as what to some was just a building housing some old relics bring someone to life. And when their eyes met again, he was sure of one thing, even if it was the only thing he was sure about when it came to this woman; she had just entered a place she felt truly alive in. And that fascinated him.

"Sorry," she said quietly, drawing her eyes away from the ceiling, letting them drag around the room for a moment before settling on Sherlock again. "I don't ever want to get used to it…"  
She didn't say anything more as she headed for the stairs in the far corner, with a 'staff only' sign on it. Produce another key, she unlocked it and entered, holding the door open behind her as Sherlock slipped through and together they descended the stairs. There was one more door that was unlocked swiftly before the pair entered the front office of the archives. Amy slipped off her coat and scarf, throwing them over the end of the desk before sitting quickly in the chair and pulling herself towards the desk.

Sherlock followed her round behind the desk, for now just standing behind her chair. He watched her fingers move fast over the keyboard to enter her login. It was muscle memory, he could tell. She had entered it so many times there was no reason for her brain to store the information anymore. The computer was mercilessly slow, and both had sighed an exasperated sigh before it finally logged in.

"Now, some idiot a long time ago decided it would be a good idea to only half enter the files on the digital system, just to piss me off. So if I find say… a diary entry under the file search in sector 14A, then files 14B, C, D and E could also be related files but wouldn't be noted in the system. I could have struck gold right here, I just wouldn't know it."  
As she spoke, she was searching the name and any related dates, eyes running across the screen to see if anything was of use.  
"There."  
Sherlock leant in, one hand beside the mouse on the desk and the other on the back of the chair.  
"As I said, sector 14A. There are no other entries until 14I. That could be everything we need, or nothing, but it's a start."

She glanced sideways, to her right for the first time and realised just how close Sherlock was leaning, eyes scanning back and forth across the screen to read what she had just said. Her eyes lingered a moment on his cheek, scanning along his sharp cheekbone. This was once again an insane situation to be in.

Sherlock's eyes darted to the side briefly, and looked away again to the screen.  
"So I guess we just start looking then," he murmured. "But what are we looking for?"  
Amy shrugged a little. "Anything that seems relevant, I suppose. Any mention of the name. Find the different arguments, the different evidence of his existence or lack of. Anything."  
Sherlock nodded and straightened up, stepping back. "Right then."

Amy picked up her keys and took a breath, heading to the door the archives. "I could lose my job for this," she said quietly, not looking at Sherlock.  
"Then don't do it," the reply came. It was a challenge, not an offer.  
She closed her eyes and shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "I knew you'd say that…"  
"Then why did you say it to me in the first place?"  
When she next looked over at him, she was smiling properly. The glint in her eye that Sherlock had observed when they entered the museum earlier was back.  
"Challenge accepted," she whispered, turning the key in the lock slowly and giving the heavy door a push.

Sherlock had to take a moment to appreciate how she'd interpreted his statement. It simply proved how much she loved this. Following her inside, he could tell how eager she was to do some proper, old fashioned researching. Digging through archives. That's what her job was about. He expected that it was now a very small part of her day to day work with the computerisation of so many documents. The way she walked ahead of him, fingers skimming across the spines of the files and folders, over the top old dusty boxes, just told him how much she appreciated what she was surrounded by. She was in her element. She was in the one place she felt…

"Isn't it strange that I feeler safer her than I do in my own flat?" she said after a moment with a small, nervous laugh. "And I don't mean safe in that sense, I mean comforted. I suppose protected." She stopped at one shelf, and looked up to a large box. "My grandfather's service records…" she said quietly, before continuing.  
Sherlock had remained silent since they entered. He was watching her. He was once again fascinated by how this woman in front of him was so engrossed in something others had no interest in. He saw a lot of himself in her, they shared passion. Maybe that was why he couldn't take his eyes off her as she stopped at the section they were looking for; 14.

"Here." She pointed, and then let her finger run down the whole stack of shelves. "We need to go through all of this."  
She crouched and began to pull boxes of the bottom shelf. Sherlock took a moment to engage the correct part of his brain again before he followed suit, taking boxes from the highest shelf where he could reach and she couldn't. He sat himself on the floor with her, the boxes opened up next to them.

"Has the museum ever had break ins?" Sherlock asked after a moment of briefly searching through a box.  
Amy nodded, not looking up from the file she had open in front of her. "Mm, why? They tended to take medals, or things they thought they could sell for a profit."  
Sherlock pushed the box towards her. All that was in the bottom were a couple of scraps of paper, with black crossed out sentences, leaving practically only 'and', 'the' and 'if'.

She raised an eyebrow at that and pushed the box away, grabbing another and pulling it towards her. By the fact it weighed barely anything, she expected the lack of paperwork the sat inside. She grabbed another. Just the same. She looked up at Sherlock and just shook her head.

"Shit."


End file.
